I'm Not Dead Let's Have Dinner
by otsanda
Summary: Post Reichenbach. John copes by sending texts to Sherlock's old phone. He expects the number to be reassigned soon. Sherlock drafts responses, but doesn't send them. Yet. Spoilers for Season 2. Complete.
1. John

**I'm Not Dead. Let's Have Dinner.**

AN and info key (what is this? what is going on here?) at the end of the chapter. I own nothing of substance.

* * *

><p>Not long after... the jump, John had been sending texts to Sherlock's old phone. Nothing too crazy. He knew the mobile would be disconnected and the number reassigned eventually and he didn't want the new owner to get anything too personal. And yet, each time he thought about stopping, it felt like he was giving up. He couldn't stand the thought of giving up.<p>

**Come back.**

The day passed.

**I don't know what I'm doing anymore.**

**Nothing feels real. It's like I'm walking through a fog; everything is blurry. ****[Nothing really matters anymore****.]**

A few more days passed.  
>As John expected, there was no response.<p>

**You're a bastard.**

**No, I know you're not.**

Several days passed.

**Why ******[did you do this to me******]?**

Another day.

**They'll never convince me you were a fraud.**

Another.

**I don't ******[think I can] ****** want to go into work.**

Another.

**I hate you.**

**I don't really hate you. ******[I'm just-] ****

Four days, this time. Nothing.

**Spoke with Greg today. I shouted a bit. I really think he really regrets what happened.**

Another day passed.

**Mycroft is a git.**

**I never really understood your relationship with your brother.**

* * *

><p>AN: Hello, there! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Let me know what you think!<p>

Key: So you know, I originally wrote this with the handy little delstrikethrough/del tool to indicate things that the characters had started to write (in a text), but deleted before sending/saving the text. As doesn't support this, anything in [these] square brackets should be treated as if they were deleted (if anyone has a better idea for how to do this, let me know). When we get to the next chapter, you can assume anything in (these) parenthesis are **unsent **texts. In general, **bold** text is sent to Sherlock and _italics_ are sent from Sherlock.**  
><strong>


	2. Sherlock

Sherlock had been receiving texts from John since a couple of days after his _death_. And each time, he drafted a reply. He wrote text messages to John, but didn't send them. He couldn't let him know. Not yet.

**Come back.** (_I would like nothing better than to return this very moment._)

Staying away was more difficult than he'd anticipated.

**I don't know what I'm doing anymore.** (_Living. Surviving. Almost more than I can say for myself._)

**Nothing feels real. It's like I'm walking through a fog; everything is blurry.** (_John._)

The silence over the next few days made Sherlock uncomfortable, but then:

**You're a bastard. **(_[__Technically, no.]_ _I know. I am sorry.)_

**No, I know you're not.** (_That fit my response well enough. I find myself hoping that is truly how you feel. Let go of me, John. Convince yourself I [__am]__ was a fraud and move on._)

Sherlock tried to convince himself that John was moving on.

**Why? **(_John._ _[__It was for you.]__ I couldn't let you die.)_

**They'll never convince me you were a fraud.** (_Please_ _try, John. It would make your life so much easier._)

**I don't want to go into work.** (_Carry on, my friend_. [My only friend.])

**I hate you.** (_[__I do, too__.] I am sorry._)

**I don't really hate you. **(_You would be justified in holding ill feelings towards me._)

The lack of messages over the next four days began to concern Sherlock; although had been watching John enough that he knew nothing catastrophic had happened, he began to wonder if he had missed something.

**Spoke with Greg today. I shouted a bit. I really think he regrets what happened. **(_He did what he had to do. Do try not to blame him._)

Sherlock found himself with his head in his hands, feeling claustrophobic with emotion.

**Mycroft is a git.** (_I am well aware of this._)

**I never really understood your relationship with your brother.** (_Neither did I_.)

It was time. He needed to talk to Mycroft.


	3. Mycroft

Mycroft was sitting silently in the Diogenes Club, his face blank and his eyes unfocussed. He sat hunched in his chair, one hand gently covering his face, as if deep in thought, when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Tiredly, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. He blinked confusedly as he read the words he saw.

_What have you done? –S_

Mycroft felt a strange sinking in his stomach.

**What? –M**

_What did you do to John? –S _

Mycroft stared at his phone, his mind feeling empty.

**Sherlock?**

_Obviously. What did you say to John? –S _

**[How are you-] You're alive? –M **

_Yes. Obviously. What. Did. You. Say. To. John.—S _

**[I-] Nothing. Where are you?—M **

Mycroft looked anxiously around him, as though his brother might be hiding behind the tea trolley.

_Upstairs. Come at once. –S_

Mycroft all but ran to the room he knew Sherlock meant. He burst into the room, expecting to see his little brother reclining in Mycroft's chair, an arrogant look on his face. He wasn't there. Looking around the room, Mycroft hesitantly asked, "Sherlock?"

The door shut loudly behind him. Turning around, Mycroft saw his brother with one hand on the door. He looked angry and a bit disheveled, not dressed in his normally immaculate attire. Mycroft had the absurd urge to wrap Sherlock in a hug and squeeze until he was forced to hug back. In the time it took to consider this, Sherlock had moved forwards and grasped Mycroft by the shoulders, his eyes nearly level with Mycroft's. The question was written plainly on Sherlock's face.

Mycroft raised his hands in surrender. "I haven't done anything to him."

Sherlock's face held suspicion.

"I merely told him I was sorry. Nothing more."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. Releasing Mycroft, he spun on his heel and began pacing.

"Why do you ask, brother?"

Pausing for a moment, Sherlock held out his phone. Confused, Mycroft took the proffered mobile.

"Last two texts," Sherlock said by way of explanation. He resumed his pacing.

**Mycroft is a git.**

**I never really understood your relationship with your brother.**

"Does he know?" Mycroft asked. He didn't feel slighted by John's insult. He did deserve it.

"No."

"And yet he has been messaging you."

Sherlock gave Mycroft a contemptuous look.

"You're worried about him," Mycroft pointed out. Sherlock froze. The room was silent. It was almost as if the world had stopped.

Finally, Sherlock snarled, "Make yourself useful and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

Suddenly, Sherlock was gone and Mycroft was alone.

* * *

><p>Thanks to <em>Scribbles and such<em> for the nice review!


	4. Sent Messages

**I wish I knew what to do with your things. You should have set up a better will.** _(Do what you will with them. It hardly matters.)_

**[We're] I'm out of milk, but I can't bring myself to leave the flat. Wish you were here to complain to.** _(Mycroft could provide, but you wouldn't appreciate the implications.)_

**No matter what Mrs. Hudson says, I'm not getting rid of the skull. Sentiment. You'd be displeased.** _(Not entirely.)_

**You know, it took a while for me to go back to the flat. I stayed with Harry for a bit, but it didn't feel right. [Leaving felt too much like abandoning you.]** _(Of course I knew. Harry [tried to convince you that-] insisted on showing you every news article even peripherally relating to me.)_

**Work was tedious. Everything was normal. Miserable.** _(Sounds dreadful, but you wouldn't be happy in my place, either.)_

**Went to see Molly this evening. She pities me. It was ridiculously obvious. There was something she really wanted to say to me, but didn't.** _(It is for the best.)_

**I wonder if she misses you as much as I do. She did have the most obvious crush.** _(It would be impossible for her to miss me as much as you.)_

**I miss you, you idiot. The world is [empty] wrong without you [and your inappropriate comments].** _(I continually feel as though I should apologize to you. I cannot, of course. Not yet.)_

**I went for a walk. The weather was nice today. That's what the lady at the shop said. I hadn't noticed.** _(Are you intentionally being unobservant, or is this some sort of code?)_

**I don't know how long I can stand this, Sherlock. [The pain is too much.]** _(You're a soldier, John. You will survive.)_

**(1/3) I dunno why you did it. I hate that you did it. But, today I tried to fulfill your stupid request. You told me to tell everyone that you created Moriarty.**

**(2/3) Well, I didn't do it. But I went to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and I did tell them that you told me to tell them that you were a fraud. **

**(3/3) That was the best I could do. I'm not going to lie to them about this.** (_Molly told me what you said._ _I am sorry._)

**Mrs. Hudson looked confused and sad. Molly looked about to have a panic attack. Greg just looked empty.** _(The more who believe, the safer you are.)_

**Everyone seems concerned for me. I keep telling them I'm fine[****, but they can tell I'm not****.]** (_John. Accept their help._)

**Today was bad.** (_I am trying to keep you alive._)

**Why would you tell me something like that? Why would you try to convince me?** _(You had to believe it, John. You were the one that mattered. In all of this.)_

**Another bad day. I think I might just sleep forever.** (_Be careful, John. [Don't let yourself slip away.]_)

**Sherlock.** (_John_.)

**I went to Molly today. I know she valued you. She wouldn't judge me.** (_She told me to stay away from the flat after you phoned._)

**She says you wouldn't want me to be depressed. I know you wouldn't. Stop being dead, you idiot. I hate this.** _([I envy you.] If only it were that simple.)_

**It's raining. Reminds me of you. [Everything reminds me of you.]** _(I knew I had impacted your life when I left it, but your safety was of paramount importance.)_

**It's bad, Sherlock.** _(It is [worse than] not as bad as you may imagine.)_

**Okay, I know you're not actually getting these, so if anyone is reading this, please let me know. I'll stop sending the stupid messages.**

_Don't stop. Please._

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed and added this story/me to alerts and favorites! I am hard at work on Chapter 5, but reviews are always motivational! _  
><em>


	5. Molly

A Trip to See Molly

* * *

><p>For the last three months, John had been sending texts to Sherlock's old phone, but he had been relatively careful not to send anything too sensitive. He knew the mobile would be disconnected soon and eventually the number would be reassigned eventually and he didn't want the next person to have that number to read anything too personal. He even knew it was a bad idea to allow himself to create a false connection to his old friend. It was unhealthy. And yet, each time he thought about stopping, it felt like he was giving up and he couldn't stand the thought of giving up.<p>

So over the months, he texted Sherlock's old phone. The messages he sent were mostly insignificant, but there were some things that he probably shouldn't have sent. Some days, he complained about work or talked about the weather. Some days he wrote angry messages about Sherlock's past transgressions. Some days John was almost able to believe he was still alive. Most days were bad. The text messages felt cathartic, but John had a nagging feeling that he was somehow putting off the pain.

The more messages he sent, the more John felt like he was forgetting something: like he had missed something that should have been obvious. Then, one weekend, John could scarcely drag himself from his bed. Realizing the signs, John phoned Molly. She sounded concerned, as usual. She convinced him to visit her flat. The entire time, she bustled around making coffee and setting out food. She seemed on edge.

"Thanks for visiting! I haven't seen you in a while. It's lovely to see you."

John looked at Molly, tiredly, forcing a wry smile, "I don't think lovely is the word most people would use for me these days."

"Oh- no- of course not. I just meant- it's nice to see you—you're still—I mean—I'm glad you came to visit."

Blinking hard, John focused his attention on the woman in front of him. "Molly, how are you coping?"

For a few long seconds, Molly looked completely lost. She snapped her mouth shut and then slowly replied, "He—I don't think that Sherlock wa—would have wanted you to be depressed."

"What about you?"

A smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "We were never that close, John."

The rest of the visit passed in near silence. The made small talk about meaningless things and then John took his leave. Back at his flat, John pulled out his mobile and stared at it. Molly was right. Sherlock wouldn't want him to be depressed. In fact, Sherlock would probably say something about being boring or ineffective. Perhaps. Sighing, John sent a message.

**I went to Molly today. I know she valued you. She wouldn't judge me.**

He felt sick. He shouldn't be doing this.

**She says you wouldn't want me to be depressed. I know you wouldn't. Stop being dead, you idiot. I hate this.**

Tossing his phone away, John curled up on the couch and tried to sleep.

John awoke around 4 in the morning to the sound of rain. Scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he glanced around the flat, spotting his mobile on the table in front of him. Turning it in his hands, he felt his stomach clench. Looking away, he saw dozens of Sherlock's things in the room. He could almost imagine him looking out the window at the water running along the street.

**It's raining. Reminds me of you. Everything reminds me of you.** John shook his head and deleted the last sentence before sending it.

John considered what to do. He could try to read something, although nothing seemed appealing. He could watch whatever crap telly was on at four in the morning. He could eat something. Shower. Go to bed and try to sleep. Nothing sounded good enough to get him off the couch.

**It's bad, Sherlock.**

Suddenly filled with anger at himself and anger at Sherlock, John stabbed another message into his phone and sent it off immediately.

**Okay, I know you're not actually getting these, so if anyone is reading this, please let me know. I'll stop sending the stupid messages.**

With his head in his hands, John felt drained. It wasn't quite giving up, but it was close. Eventually, he would have to stop this. He couldn't keep pretending forever.

Then, for the first time in months, John heard the beep of a text message. Stunned, he stared at his phone. He turned it over in his palm twice. It was from a very familiar number.

_Don't stop. Please._

* * *

><p>AN: I couldn't help wondering if you guys noticed the lack of (parenthesis) in the last text of the previous chapter, so I thought I'd put this one out a bit faster. Enjoy! Thanks again for the reviews, favorites, and alerts! Reviews are especially motivational (don't be afraid to be harsh! I don't have a beta, so any criticism is awesome)._  
><em>


	6. John's Response

**Okay, I know you're not actually getting these, so if anyone is reading this, please let me know. I'll stop sending the stupid messages.**

With his head in his hands, John felt drained. It wasn't quite giving up, but it was close. Eventually, he would have to stop this. He couldn't keep pretending forever.

Then, for the first time in months, John heard the beep of a text message. Stunned, he stared at his phone. He turned it over in his palm twice. It was from a very familiar number.

_Don't stop. Please._

* * *

><p>John blinked many times in quick succession. "Uh- wha-?"<p>

John looked around the flat again and then back to the phone in his hand. His head felt fuzzy.

Panic began to build in John's chest. He could feel himself begin to hyperventilate. "No."

It couldn't be. It wasn't. He was being stupid. The phone number had been reassigned and for some reason, the person who got the number was responding to him. A different sort of panic fluttered in his chest. How much had they read? Was it an ordinary citizen? A criminal? Did they believe the news stories about Sherlock being a fraud?

**Who is this?**

_A concerned party._

Mycroft? That seemed possible. But why would Mycroft do it like this? He already had John's number. He could just phone to check in on him.

**Why are you doing this?**

_To make sure you are all right._

**I am.**

_And to make sure you remain that way._

John sat back into the couch, rubbing his head. He should ignore it. He should stop sending the texts. Maybe it was a sign that he needed to move on.

**No. You're not getting anything from me. Goodbye.**

John threw his phone away from him, violently. That was it. Done. Suddenly filled with energy, John hurried into the kitchen and made himself some breakfast. He spent the rest of the day busying himself with mind-numbing work. He tidied the flat and did some paperwork he'd been putting off. He heard the text alert noise a short while after he sent his last text, but he didn't look at it until late at night. It only had two words.

_Please, John._

* * *

><p>AN: Short chapter this time. Next one will be longer. As always, thanks for the reviews (6 in 5 chapters)! I am well pleased. Thanks especially to 'MarvelDC superhero fan,' 'Roseyyyyy,' and 'Scribbles and such' for reviewing the last chapter. I am partially done with chapter 7. Remember, reviews are motivational. ;) Don't be shy!


	7. Greg

The next day was a Monday and John had work. John brought his mobile in with him, but he didn't look at it all day. He focused very hard on his patients and even made an effort to be friendly with his the rest of the staff. By the end of the day, he was exhausted. He fell asleep almost as soon as he got home.

Tuesday went similarly. By Wednesday, John had fallen back into his routine. His anger from the other night had given him energy, but it was beginning to wane. He hadn't received any more texts.

By Thursday, John was feeling drained. Work was tedious. Out of habit, he pulled out his phone and typed the thought into a text.

**Work's been tedious.**

John caught himself before he sent the message. What was he doing? He sat motionless for what seemed like ages. Impulsively, John pressed the send button. The moment he did so, he was angry again. He didn't have time to work himself up too much, however. He received an answer in less than a minute.

_My sympathies._

John's stomach churned. Half of him felt as though he was being mocked. The other half was just trying not to imagine his friend on the other end of the conversation.

On Friday, work flew by. John felt distracted. It was nearly the weekend and John knew he was going to have to do something about these messages. He could contact Mycroft and demand whatever information he had, although John didn't feel much like talking to him. Lestrade was another possibility. He wasn't as likely as Mycroft to know exactly what was going on, but talking to a friend sounded better than talking to the Government.

Lestrade it was.

* * *

><p>Greg Lestrade's day had been less interesting than John's had. His department had just finished an arduous case involving about thirty different people and the paperwork was a nightmare. Just as he was deciding the rest of the busywork could wait until Monday, Greg saw John through the window of his office. He stood and tried to stretch the hours of sitting from his stiff muscles. Opening his door for his guest, he waved to a chair.<p>

"What can I help you with, John?"

John appeared hesitant to bring something up. Greg wasn't surprised. Their last meeting had not gone spectacularly well. There had been a lot of yelling and it was his guess that neither of them wanted a rehashing of that experience.

"Well, I've something to confess."

Greg sat back in his chair carefully and leaned back. "Go on."

"I—I've been texting his mobile."

"Sorry, what?"

"I've been texting Sherlock's mobile," John clarified.

"Right. Okay?"

"And obviously I didn't expect a reply. But I'm guessing the number was reassigned—or—someone got ahold of the phone. I don't know." John ran one hand through his hair.

"Wait… there's been… someone texted back?"

Silently, John handed over the phone. Greg glanced through the most recent few texts. "Last week?"

"Yeah. What do I do?"

"Are you asking me as a friend? Because I'm not entirely sure I could do anything professionally."

"I don't know. Either." John shrugged. "What do I do?"

"Well, they haven't really said anything too bad. It's up to you. If you want to keep texting, go ahead," Greg shrugged, "but if they say anything… well… let me know if there's any change. Maybe then we can figure something out."

John sighed. "I do want to find out who it is. I don't think Mycroft is behind it, although he could be."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Not really his style."

John turned his phone on. "I'm gonna tell him—whoever it is—that I'm talking to you."

Greg felt a little alarmed.

The reply was very quick. John handed his phone over.

**Went to see Greg.**

_Lestrade. Yes. Good._

Greg shivered, although the temperature wasn't particularly low in his office. He felt like going to the window and peeking outside for any suspicious figures. "We definitely need to keep an eye on this… person."

"Do you think I should go to Mycroft? Ask him what he knows?"

Before John finished his question, his phone beeped again. Lestrade, still holding the mobile, glanced down at the new text before handing the phone back to John.

_Don't bother with Mycroft._

Greg and John looked at each other. Greg didn't say how eerily reminiscent of Sherlock that was.

John shot off a reply and showed Greg the response when it came a moment later.

**Why?**

_Worthless._

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks, everyone! I'll be posting again soon. Reviews make me a happy!_  
><em>


	8. A Short Exchange

**Are you pretending to be [my] [****dead]**** [best friend] Sherlock?**

_[No.]__ I am. [That is a leading question, John.]  
><em>

**Am I to believe that [****you]**** he is alive? Or is he texting to me from [****heaven]**** beyond the grave?**

_Whatever you like._

**Why are you doing this?**

_I had to._

**Sherlock?**

_[Yes.] What do you think?_

**I don't believe you.**

_Good._

**But… I want to believe you.**

_Why?_


	9. Little Brown Paper Package

**[You'd never believe it, but] The silence is driving me mad.**

_What would you fill it with?_

**Explosions, gunshots, violin at all times of the night, and that insane nattering. Now it's just crap telly.**

_Nattering is a situationally unsuitable word. It implies idle chatter._

**There was some idle chatter, though.**

_Only for your benefit._

* * *

><p><strong>What do you think you are doing? –M<strong>

_You may have to be a bit more specific. –S_

**Why are doing this to him? Hasn't he suffered enough? –M **

_Watch over him while I am away. –S _

**Where are you going?—M **

_To finish what I started. Do not text me again. –S _

* * *

><p>For the past week, John had been texting <em>him<em> on and off and _he_ always responded within a few minutes.

This time was different. On Monday, John sent a message during his lunch break, but by the end of the day he still hadn't gotten a response. He was a bit surprised to find himself disappointed.

As he was heading home, John thought about texting Lestrade. It was possible he had discovered some new information.

John let himself in and trudged up the stairs, throwing himself into his chair and started composing a message for Lestrade when he glanced at the kitchen table and noticed a small, neatly-wrapped brown paper package.

John thought about it and decided he had no idea what it could be. It looked too small to be something from his sister. His curiosity piqued, John got up to examine the package. There was no return address. The package was simply labeled _John_ in unfamiliar handwriting.

John sat down at the kitchen table, contemplating the possibilities. He should call Lestrade. An unmarked package would definitely have spelled trouble in the past, but Sherlock wasn't here and John wasn't nearly as involved in crashing the crime network anymore. It was always possible that he had a residual reputation as trouble. He didn't think Moriarty's network would be particularly interested in him now that Sherlock was… gone, but it was possible.

Making his decision, John called Lestrade.

* * *

><p>Surprisingly, it didn't take long for Greg's team to evaluate the mysterious package. It contained something solid, but it didn't seem harmful in any detectable way. Still, Greg thought he'd better be present when John opened it.<p>

The two of them went back at Baker's Street. John set the package on the kitchen table, where he said he had found it and sat down in front of it. Greg felt more comfortable standing. Despite the unlikeliness that the package was dangerous, he couldn't relax. He stood rigidly beside John, feeling decidedly on edge.

Carefully, John opened the package.

It contained a small, plain wooden box. The wood was stained an even, dark color and the sides were smooth. John glanced at Greg with a puzzled look on his face. Greg shrugged in response.

Gingerly, John lifted the lid.

* * *

><p>AN: Let me know what you think about where the story is headed. Guesses and criticism are always welcome! Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	10. The Small Wooden Box

John lifted the lid. The inside of the small wooden box was roughly lined with cheap red velvet. Resting on the velvet was an unmarked CD. Picking it up, John offered it to Lestrade. The DI accepted it and held it under the light to examine it.

After a minute, Lestrade said, "Well, I have absolutely no idea."

"It could be from him." John offered, gesturing to his mobile. Lestrade nodded in response, handing the disc back to John.

"Are you going to have a look at it, then?"

"I suppose so." John fished out his computer and put the unmarked disc in the drive.

It was an audio recording.

The first few seconds were almost silent except for a sound like a footstep or someone setting a mug on the table. Then there was music. It wasn't a very full sound; it was a solo violin playing a song John almost recognized.

John's eyes were drawn sharply to the corner where Sherlock's violin rested, untouched. He felt a dull ache bloom in his chest.

"The texter sent it."

"Wha—how do you know?"

"I told him I was missing the sounds of… that it was too quiet here now. He must've sent it to me."

"Is it Sh— who do you reckon is playing?"

"Dunno. It sounds a bit like him, I suppose." John swallowed, "I'm not that familiar with music myself. It could be anyone."

The two listened in silence until Lestrade's phone rang, disrupting their reverie.

"Lestrade. Yes. No, yesterday. No don't touch it. I'll be right in."

Lestrade turned back to John with an apologetic look on his face. "I can't leave for two hours without them messing something up. You'll let me know if there's anything weird about it, yeah?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Well, then. See you later, John."

* * *

><p>Over the next few days, John began listening to the anonymous violinist after work. It was calming and made him feel almost normal. He even estimated that he recognized 80% of the songs. Of course, by Wednesday he knew all of them. John even started to doze off in his chair while listening to the soft violin music. His dreams were colourful and emotional, changing from peaceful to frantic. He heard Sherlock's voice say something, but when he jolted awake, the dream faded into nothing.<p>

By Thursday evening, John was surprised that he still hadn't received a reply to his text. He was not particularly worried about the lack of response because the package was so likely from the same man, but he would rather have some confirmation.

**Did you send the package?**

A few moments later, through the solo violin music, John thought he heard something. He turned off the music, but the flat was silent.

Work on Friday was tiresome and after arriving home, John felt a flash of annoyance at the texter. Why hadn't he heard back?

**What is going on?**

As he hadn't turned the music on, yet, John could clearly hear a muffled buzzing a few moments after he sent the text. Cautiously, John walked across the room, trying to find the source of the noise. Suddenly struck with an idea, John sent another text.

**Hello?**

This time, John was prepared and was able to pinpoint the source of the buzzing: the wooden box was vibrating. John studied the outside of the box and then opened it and studied the inside. Now that he thought about it, the box was shallower than it should have been. Picking at the velvet lining, John was able to peel it back and reveal a false bottom to the box. Mildly impressed, John opened it.

Sherlock's phone lay quietly inside.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for all the lovely reviews! I wanted to get this out sooner so I wouldn't keep you guys in suspense for too long. We're getting close to the end of the story, but let me know what you think and I may write a bit more. I am planning on starting another fic soon, so watch out for that, too. Thanks again!


	11. Sherlock's Mobile

Mycroft surveyed his younger brother. The look on Sherlock's face was quite redolent of his early years of childish sulking. A dark bruise was forming on his face and one of his wrists had the punctures indicative of sharp teeth, but at least the wounds were easily dealt with. This time.

"You should have waited. We have people who train to do this." As much as his younger brother annoyed him, Mycroft did worry about his penchant for trouble.

"They're idiots." Sherlock defended, "We can't afford mistakes."

Although left unsaid, Mycroft knew Sherlock was referring to John's safety and not that of the nation.

"You could have been hurt," Mycroft snapped. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he amended, "You could have been _seriously_ hurt."

"I would have been absolutely fine if it weren't for that dog. Besides, I had it under control. There was no need for your little henchmen to come running in and spoiling everything."

Mycroft didn't think John would have particularly liked how Sherlock went about that little plan, but he didn't say anything. He felt his energy drain and, for once, he didn't feel the need to scold his brother. Sherlock continued to look insolent.

Mycroft glanced down as his mobile went off. John Watson was calling. Mycroft pursed his lips and glanced at Sherlock, trying to decide whether or not to tell his brother who was on the line.

"John, is it?" Sherlock asked.

Drat. He was quick. Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock ploughed on.

"He's figured it out, then. Seen the phone. He won't have gone through it, yet. He's calling to see if you have any information. Don't answer. I'd say we have at least an hour."

Mycroft smiled in spite of himself and silenced John's call. "And what, may I ask, will happen after an hour?"

"Then John will know the truth." Sherlock looked at Mycroft as if he were stupid. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Defiantly, Sherlock pursed his lips, as though trying not to add to the end of his statement.

"Ah." Mycroft's smile felt odd on his face. "We'd better get you cleaned up, then."

* * *

><p>John was annoyed at Mycroft, who seemed to be ignoring him. Maybe he was doing some important government work, but John somewhat viciously thought he was probably sitting around reading the paper and sipping sweetened tea.<p>

Turning back to the little wooden box, John studied the phone again before lifting the mobile almost reverently out of the box. It felt fragile in his hand, although he knew it wasn't.

There was no password protection on the phone; it lit up at John's touch. The battery was nearly fully charged. Whoever had given it to him had thought ahead. But what was he meant to see?

John pulled up the call history. It was blank. Frowning, he took out his own mobile and selected Sherlock's number. After a few seconds, the phone in his other hand buzzed. John pressed the end button on his phone. Checking the call history again, John saw his name.

Right. So the history had been deleted. This wasn't what he was supposed to be looking at.

'Lestrade,' John thought. 'I should talk to Lestrade.'

He felt like he was wading through a haze. His mind was moving too slowly. He didn't particularly want to involve Lestrade, yet. He felt like being alone. It seemed so personal.

John paced back and forth across the flat. It was clear he was meant to look at the texts. Should he look? He had to. There wasn't really an option. But he knew that what he saw would make him want to believe… and he wasn't quite ready for that, because if he started to believe, sooner or later that belief would have to be dispelled.

John knew it wouldn't be difficult to kindle that hope and it would be even more painful to shatter it again.

Steeling himself, John decided to be sceptical. Just because he might find things typed out that _could_ _have been_ written by Sherlock did not mean that they _had_ _been_ written by Sherlock (or, if they had, that they had been written after his death).

Nodding to himself, John selected the text history.

Almost everything from before Sherlock's death had been deleted, which made John irrationally angry. Whoever he had been texting had been doing more than just using the phone. John took a deep breath. The number hadn't been reassigned. Sherlock's actual phone had been used.

The oldest incoming text said:

**I'm waiting… JM**

John felt an intense hate, but moved on. The second and third incoming texts were the ones John had sent ages ago.

**Come back.**

**I don't know what I'm doing anymore.**

John felt shame fill him. Seeing his name along with Jim Moriarty….

Angrily, John moved to the outgoing texts. They started with:

_Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH _

_PS. Got something of yours you might want back._

John felt like he'd taken a blow to the stomach. The last text Sherlock had sent. He had dictated the place of meeting, keeping John out of the picture. What had Sherlock known?

Stopping that train of thought before it could hurt him, John moved to the second outgoing text. This one was from after Sherlock's death and, therefore, not from Sherlock himself.

_Don't stop. Please._

Scrolling quickly through the rest of the outgoing texts, John saw only things he had seen before. There were no other texts to anyone but himself.

Angrily, John set both mobiles on the table. What was he supposed to be getting from this? He had seen the rest of the messages before he had received Sherlock's phone. Grumpily, he glared at the table.

* * *

><p>AN: Second to last chapter, everyone! Thanks for sticking with me. I'm nearly done with the last chapter, too. Please continue to leave reviews. They mean a lot to me.


	12. I'm Not Dead

Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to be in a glaring contest. Mycroft was again reminded of when they were children. He was the elder brother by a fair number of years. He should be the one to stop this nonsense.

For the second time in half an hour, Mycroft's mobile went off. Thankful for the excuse, Mycroft broke eye contact with his brother (who would be looking smug now, Mycroft was sure); the elder brother pulled out his phone again.

John.

"By now John's realized what's been deleted, but he probably hasn't found everything that's been left," Sherlock even sounded smug to Mycroft's well-trained ears.

Mycroft silenced the incoming call, wishing his brother was a little less petulant.

"Why do you say that, brother?" Mycroft inquired, politely.

Sherlock made a huffing noise in response. Mycroft leaned back, waiting in silence for Sherlock to relent. Before anything happened, Mycroft's mobile started ringing again. Surprised, Mycroft looked down at it.

Sherlock.

Mycroft glanced at his brother before looking back to his phone. His face must have shown something.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock said, breaking his most recent silence. After another brief glance, Mycroft thought Sherlock was looking pleased, "Well done, John! Still… don't answer it, Mycroft."

Mycroft felt like a piece in a child's game. He wasn't a fan of the feeling.

* * *

><p>Grumpily, John ended the call. Mycroft hadn't answered from John's number or from Sherlock's.<p>

Stupid git.

"Guess I'm on my own, then," John said aloud. The words bounced around the empty flat, making him feel even more alone. The silence pressed on his ears. Abruptly, John stood and made his way to his computer to start the violin music. At least that would eliminate the silence.

As he was fumbling with his disc, he had the irrational wish to thank the anonymous texter for the music, although, of course, there was no way to contact him now. He hadn't received any texts from him for days.

Something dawned on John, then. There might be messages saved on the phone that were never sent.

Dropping the disc, John rushed back to the table and snatched up the mobile.

John opened the drafts and fought the urge to be surprised at what he found.

_(I would like nothing better than to return this very moment._)

(_That fit my response well enough. I find myself hoping that is truly how you feel. Let go of me, John. Convince yourself I was a fraud and move on._)

(_Please_ _try, John. It would make your life so much easier._)

It was like hearing one half of a telephone conversation.

(_You would be justified in holding ill feelings towards me._)

John flicked through the first dozen messages, ignoring the prickling sensation behind his eyes. The messages didn't sound resoundingly like Sherlock, John tried to convince himself. Anyone might have written them.

_(Do what you will with them. It hardly matters.)_

_(Mycroft could provide, but you wouldn't appreciate the implications.)_

_(Of course I knew. Harry insisted on showing you every news article even peripherally relating to me.)_

Some of the messages corresponded with texts that John vaguely remembered writing. And the speaker referred to himself as—no. Of course he was trying to prove something or manipulate John.

_(It is for the best.)_

_(I continually feel as though I should apologize to you. I cannot, of course. Not yet.)_

_(You're a soldier, John. You will survive.)_

Whenever John saw his own name, he felt his throat tighten.

_(The more who believe, the safer you are.)_

(_John. Accept their help._)

(_I am trying to keep you alive._)

_(You had to believe it, John. You were the one that mattered. In all of this.)_

(_Be careful, John._)

_(John.)_

_(I knew I had impacted your life when I left it, but your safety was of paramount importance.)_

It was becoming difficult to breathe. John's heart was hammering in his chest.

_(It is not as bad as you may imagine.)_

_(John.)_

Finally, John arrived at the last unsent message.

_(I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.)_

There were only three people (as far as John knew) who were aware of the significance of the phrase. And other than John, they were both dead.

John felt a wave of calm descend on him. It couldn't be.

After a beat, John realized he'd forgotten to breathe.

He sucked in air, filling up his lungs with it. His head felt funny. It _was_… wasn't… _was_… possible. John leaned back slowly into his chair and stared at the phone.

He was jolted from his reverie by three soft, evenly spaced raps on the door. He found himself on his feet and wading through a haze down the stairs and towards the door. He yanked the door open, his vision foggy.

* * *

><p>Silence reigned between John and the dark figure in front of him… and then <em>his<em> voice roughly spoke his name. "John."

'Sherlock.'

John wasn't sure if he spoke aloud or not, but the next thing he knew, he was being guided gently to the ground in front of the doorstep.

'Just a magic trick.'

John shook his head to clear it and turned to look at the figure seated awkwardly next to him. He looked strange, all knees and elbows poking from under his coat. Not as graceful as normal. John's heart swelled. Sherlock. His friend had an odd look on his face. John couldn't place it.

"Sherlock."

Inexplicably, John reached out his hands. He needed to prove this was real. John's hands felt the rough fabric of _his_ coat and then the dry warmth of Sherlock's hands as they engulfed his. They were seated not a foot away from each other, but John thought it felt like a great deal further. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a wry sort of smile.

"Sher—" John started again, but his throat closed off.

And then, John's arms wrapped themselves around his friend, and John felt arms wrapped tightly around him in return. Despite how awkward it should have been, hugging your not-dead best mate, John felt only relief at the tactile proof of the reality of the situation. Sherlock smelled of soap and slightly of smoke and metal and the wind in the springtime. John felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up from inside of him. John wanted to tell Sherlock that he had always believed in him; he wanted to say how different everything had been without him; he wanted to make him promise never to leave like that again, but Sherlock already knew.

"I am sorry, John." Sherlock's voice rumbled. John felt giddy at being able to feel Sherlock speaking. He was alive. John's face felt hot.

John's mind was at once buzzing and blank, full of questions and wishes but unable to clarify any of them. He opened his mouth, intending to try, but only a ragged breath came out.

Sherlock's arms tightened and they sat in silence.

Finally, John rasped, "Are you all right?"

John felt Sherlock chuckle deeply in response. "John."

The sound of his own name gave him a prickly sensation. He hadn't thought he would ever hear Sherlock speak it again. But he had. He was speaking. And he would again. John flexed his fingers, revelling in the tactile sensation.

"Let's go inside," Sherlock suggested, pulling John gently to his feet. Their eyes met. John felt far too happy.

"Your brother is a git."

"This can't be a surprise to you."

"Nope. Just don't want you to forget."

"Hardly a valid concern, John."

They both had ridiculous grins on their faces as they entered 221B together for the first time in far too long.

* * *

><p>AN: That's all for now! Let me know what you thought! I may eventually do a sequel, depending on the response (I have some other stories vying for attention in my mind at the moment, as well). Thanks again for reading, everyone!


End file.
